Passive Me, Aggressive You
by munchkinjenny05
Summary: My take on Dynasty's (and her mother's) motivations behind everything that happened in episode 13. AU-ish. Dynasty x Imogen. Mentions Connor and briefly, the life of the Barry Family before Waterloo Road.


**A/N: I never thought I would write this show again, in all honesty I have tried to quit it more times than I could count, but I was watching the episode last night and all I kept thinking was that I hadn't seen lesbian subtext like that since Emily x Scout. I'm probably the only one shipping them, but I think it could be really cute and Dynasty has intrigued me since she first appeared. I'll admit that I love that the newness of the Barry family gives me the freedom to construct whatever head cannons I want for them. Obviously, I have borrowed some dialogue so none of that credit goes to me.**

"That's not funny; people get anorexia listening to people like you." You know that you should thank Jade for trying to defend you (even though it's another thing Barry's' don't do), but there is only room for relief, because of all the shots your brother could have aimed your way, this one seems restrained. You can't kid yourself, but nevertheless you're happy to benefit from the fact that he is too proud to ever reveal that his first girlfriend that went beyond a booty call was stolen by his sister. (Of course it didn't happen like that, it wasn't sordid, but you'll die before you share any details with him.)

Meanwhile, you have already made your mind up about this place. You hate it. That's settled and so you'll take whatever means your mum offers to set you free. Waterloo Road brings out your worst and you've spilled one secret already this morning (a direct result of having to bite your tongue when your mum discussed the audition for the thousandth time). It's not your fault that being this lightheaded brings all your barriers down, until you could almost say _anything. _Thankfully distraction, a boy, swoops in to save you, and remind you to screw your smile on. You know how to be this girl, play this role, she's been around a lot longer that your true self. That's the one you can't get used to, the one who ruins things, the one that tears are spilled over. You concentrate on getting the precise sway of your hips just right (geometry maybe boring, but it's better, and safer, than this bizarre introspection that has come over you). If you could just take a bite, or another deep breath, you're sure that control would return, but you do neither. All the same, you do make the necessary concession to close your mouth and walk a bit faster, regretting having opened up this particular can of worms. You've given them one titbit, taken a chunk out of the new girl mystique, what are they going to want next? It's innocent now, but what happens if they smell blood? Being disarmed is something that absolutely cannot happen, not only because you're a Barry, but because you're Dynasty Barry and not like them. You're a daughter set apart.

The air is heavy; it's unbearable, even before the stifling clouds roll in like clockwork. School is thick with them. Breathing is difficult, but that's nothing new. As always in moments like these, drowning, your lifeline appears (although these days it has begun to feel more like a snare as your mother's face undoubtedly accompanies it, leaving your guts to twist painfully). Out of the corner of your eye, you see the familiar trail of golden hair and barely swallow down the urge to yell her name. You feel more and more powerless each time. It's a ghost, nothing more. Lacey isn't there, she couldn't be.

Instead, it's Imogen who walks across your field of vision. You sit down, as close to her as you can be without actually being _next _to her, before realising that your silence has done little to deter the audience that you no longer crave. Your mother would be furious at you for not playing up to the crowd (and better yet hiding behind her as a reason not to); it's that knowledge that destroys your resolve. It's for her that you crumble (not Imogen who is listening intently, or the eager others), because deep down you want to pretend. You need to belong to her again, even if it's only by acting like her crowning glory for an instant, rather than a shameful disappointment.

The smile as you tell them is real, irrespective of all the other bluster and bravado. It vanishes as you catch Imogen's eye again. "What are you looking at?" You dare her to speak, to say a word to halt this charade, as she has the authority that you don't possess. She doesn't use it though. So that's the first chance missed. Strike one.

**...**

It hurts. You could have sworn that she would try and protest. In many ways though you are perversely grateful because the other girl's indifference is the wake-up call you need. She doesn't look at you the same way, try and decode the world behind your eyes. Why should she? You're the real freak here. You try and inflict some back at her, aiming daggers, because you hate her for this mute stance. She's listening, you're sure, and she disapproves, that's even clearer, yet she won't voice it. For all your mistakes, each fall, at least you made the leap, you managed to act rather than being frozen stiff. The countless heartbroken looks that Imogen directs at Connor do nothing except trigger your gag reflex. You never just let everything wash over you or mooned about helplessly (this morning doesn't count; your mother has always been the immovable object to your unstoppable force.) She's infuriating. You want to scream in her face that the meek won't inherit the earth. You don't. In place of conversation (her choice, you tell yourself), the immature tit for tat continues through each class.

In history she finally breaks, or more accurately tries to break you when patience runs out and you push too hard. Imogen is angry and you'd be thrilled if you weren't so caught up in your own defences. "Because I've got people who want me!" You snap back. It is lost on everybody except you that you've kept the pronoun purposely vague, set to neutral. It's a habit so inbuilt that all the swells of temper in the world can't erase it.

"You're such a Sket." You aren't offended, quite the opposite. Throwaway lines like this make you feel safe, being so wide of the mark. They are so much better than the alternative. You are still a Barry though, despite everything, so the last word will be yours. That's a guarantee.

"Is that right, and what have you got going for you, eh?" You should have left it there, stopped while it wasn't too hurtful. Unfortunately your runaway mouth doesn't allow that. "At least I can keep a man if I want to." You don't want to, you never will, but she does and your bitterness (you refuse to admit to any degree of jealousy) carries and colours your intent. It makes you sound smug, although you have no right, wearing a heart just as broken as hers. You cross your arms to try and shield the pieces.

**...**

"I want to press charges." The threat sounds false even to your own ears. Unfortunately some of your mother's teachings will never be forgotten. You want to take the sentence back immediately, but you can't. Spoken on autopilot or not, there is no rewind. Once you've watched her go, so has the opportunity for an apology (not that you'd utter any in front of everybody anyway, you don't dare. That is another of your family's pearls of wisdom; never admit any blame, no matter what.) Regrettably, you let your brain wander. It's easy to tune out the conversation and give the answers you've rehearsed, what's harder is suppressing a blush as you remember the other girl's hands tangled up in your hair. That wasn't how you imagined your first real, up close and personal, encounter with the brunette panning out.

Mr Burn's attempt at reasoning with your mum on the other hand, is paint by numbers. You predict it all with depressing clarity, and the only thing that goes halfway to proving you wrong, is how hard he fights your corner. It doesn't matter in the long run, but you file that glimmer of hope away, never doubting that it might come in useful some other time. You don't want to keep a record of anything that comes out of her mouth though. You're beyond sick of those sentiments. What's worse is the expression of her face, the faintly contemptuous look she wears, which seems to be the only one she has available for you anymore. Sure, you prefer it to the disgust that greeted you the day you were caught, the door ajar and beautifully soft hair fanned out across your pillow like a rippling golden sea, but not by much. This guilt drags on day after day and never dulls. You pretend not see, but it is etched upon you, the past is a riot of neon against your eyelids.

Escape is preparing for your audition. Maybe if you can do this one thing, she'll smile at you like she used to. It might not be too late to be your mother's daughter again. Of course it's Imogen who interrupts, who else? Apparently now that she's found her tongue, there's no stopping her. You try not to smirk as she charges up to you with her fake sorry. You've done your fair share of those in 17 years.

"Hey, by the way, I don't want another fight or anything, but you should sort out your own crap before you start mouthing off about mine." It needed to be said, one of the few things that you don't regret today.

"I can't sort my own crap out, can I?"

"I'm not talking about your scar, I'm talking about Connor." She winces but you don't and _won't_, back down. She doesn't understand that you're pushing her towards him not for more heartbreak, but for closure. You aren't immune to the importance of the very thing which a moonlight flit robbed you of. "We all see you sitting there like it's the end of the world." There's that thinly veiled resentment again. It coats your tongue. You can't help it; she doesn't even know the meaning of the word, whereas you never did like the taste of the truth very much. It's no coincidence that you turn away as the bomb you dropped hits home.

**...**

You keep at it, hoping the tactic will work the same as it did in class. She needs constant prodding, that fact should infuriate you, but it doesn't. You can relate, more than Imogen will ever guess or you'll ever tell. Until that is, she breaks for a second time. The pressure fractures her differently for once and you aren't thrilled. The taste of salt is even harder to cope with than truth and seeing her like that makes your own eyes sting. You speak questions that don't need to be asked and one that is, as far as you are concerned, desperately necessary. "I know I'm the new girl, but it seems to me, you're better off without him."

"We were great before this." You would love nothing more than to kill Connor, or at least to let some of the emotional pain he has caused manifest physically in the form of vivid cuts and slow to fade bruises which he'd be forced to stare at each morning, but alarm bells sound and veto this plan. You've already drawn enough attention to yourself with regards to the faculty and you'd have to be as dense as your family believes in order to see that this display of 'loyalty' is the last thing the other girl wants. Luckily you have another, less hostile, talent.

Imogen's smile as you hold up the mirror makes the rest of the day blur at the edges. You forget for a second, and it's blissful. She looks radiant and it makes you feel the same way too. Temporarily gone is your scarlet letter. You dismiss the lipstick shade you wear (matching your ex's because you are that much of a masochist) and all your other baggage. You're just a girl, sitting before another, trying to cheer her up. It's that simple.

Nothing lasts though, not even this island of calm. She opens her mouth and unravels it all, leaving you no option but to repeat your lines verbatim. You can't help but wonder how long it'll take before you start to believe them.

English class feels like a conspiracy, first the unexpected grade chips away, and then the brunette joins in, drowning out the nagging voice in the back of your head. Why can't anything just be easy? The tone of your response, "Why wouldn't I?" is a direct challenge. You're coming undone, hardly bothering to hide anymore.

"Because, okay whatever you think, I'm just going to say it anyway, your mom says you're no good at anything else, doesn't she, and you believe her." You go through the motions of deflecting her suspicions as right as they are, and as deep as they gnaw at you, because there is no other way to react. You had it all planned, but you didn't allow for Imogen Stewart, and everything she would cause you to feel. She's still talking, showering you with compliments until you can't help yourself.

"Are you coming onto me?" It slipped out and your eyes widen, remembering. The last time you said this, in that same slightly bewildered tone, it earned you a first kiss and descent into almost madness. The trouble started because of moments like the one you are presently in, and you need it to stop because you can't fall again. Your mother is standing just yards away, the very same woman who you pledged a fresh start to, end of story. The rest of Imogen's plea is unheard, making you wish that a rewind button did exist, since you're sure there were a lot more kind words you missed.

**...**

"I thought you said it was classy?" It's as close as you can safely get to any words of refusal without negative consequences.

"All clubs look naff during the day; just wait until midnight, the place full of punters waving tenners at you, eh? Pretty classy then." The gleefulness that surrounds her, the smirk of a well thought out plan coming together, those are the things that wound you most. Nothing would feel better than fleeing in the opposite direction as fast as your legs can carry you, but instead you just parrot the grin back. She doesn't even comprehend that this scheme won't fix you. There is no cure. At your lowest ebb you searched for one, so you know for certain it's a bust, identical to all her other abandoned ideas like setting you up on dates with the neighbourhood boys. The only different is that this one involves a surgeon's scalpel. It's more desperate, and thus permanent, than any plan that has come before. You're both afraid of what the future will mean without it.

It begins to feel like a dream, standing there in that backroom, so you ground yourself by skimming through your English assignment. The construction of the first few paragraphs was your favourite part and recognition of this feels more worthy than anything a sleazy club promoter could offer. Plenty of people have told you that you're pretty, but very few have acknowledged that you're more than that. It has to mean something. You hope that be saying it aloud, it will.

That is a foolish notion, added instantly to the top of your list of regrets. Something snaps. With one final tirade of the day it's likely that you've burnt your final bridge, but you don't care. "I'm worth more than this mum." If those are your final words to her, then so be it. You decide that if your departing words as a member of the Barry Family are these, they aren't a bad choice. It gets to the root of the problem at least. You've had enough of hating yourself in the hopes that it will make her love you, you realise now; it just took another person's perspective to make you see clearly and their bravery to encourage you to act.

Apparently your mum isn't as eager as you thought for a clean break. You aren't sure what emotion wins out though when you see her rushing after you. Fear is overwhelming, but so too is optimism, because she doesn't look keen to resort to murder. As the parallels to that night vanish, so does your resignation. You take a tentative breath and count to 5. "Dynasty, I just want to know that you're not going to do anything stupid...like doing a runner." The emphasis on that last part isn't wasted. She doesn't need to add '_again' _or '_like before'_. The implications are obvious (although hopefully not so crystal clear that Imogen puts the story together). Just in case the other girl does decide to dig, you feign ignorance. Idiotic is one thing you aren't, but if she stays, her curiosity might be satisfied and experience has taught you that some secrets need to be kept. "Look, I did what I did, for you. All of it." Alluding to the near miss, what she walked in on, and all its ramifications, is all close as the pair of you get to actually talking about it, but this time you're glad that your family doesn't communicate freely. "My way just wasn't the right way." You take the meaning.

"Is that like you saying sorry? Because that'd be a first." You seal it with a smile before turning away. One thing you can't deny is your mother's sincerity. Misguided though her upheaval of the family was, at the heart of it her intentions were mostly good. It feels like it could be enough of an olive branch to start with.

**...**

That leaves you with only one set of amends to make. "You're brilliant you are." You don't say more right away, although you could, you feel it. Imogen isn't ready for that, and given the assault that your ribcage is getting as you meet her gaze, it's best to assume that you aren't either. It's already been such a long and eventful day; you have time now, so why rush. She may not see herself as you see her yet, even as she absorbs everything else you say unflinchingly, but she will and you'll be there waiting in the wings, happily the first one to say I told you so.

You watch her remove the scarf, a big first step, and your mind is made up about one you want to take of your own. Connor gives you your out, reluctant as you are to go; you need to duck out of sight for this. It's time for goodbye's, hers and yours. Your first task is to gently remove the remainder of your faded lipstick in the mirror and reapply something closer to the one you daubed on Imogen. You chose that shade for a reason, but you don't dwell on symbolism, there is still another weight for you to get rid of. You don't need to rely on the gift of the necklace for good luck anymore. Everything's changed. Perhaps your mum wasn't wrong about _everything _after all, because suddenly, there's more than a slight chance that you might not dread the idea of a new start quite so much. Reinvention doesn't always have to be negative, and there's excitement in the prospect of exploring what that means.


End file.
